Chapter 38 - The Fortress on Scioto Mile
While the troopers hauled Greg Vance away, a sharp crackle echoed over Agent Miller’s radio headset.
*"Tower command to Alpha Leader! The Gulfstream has ignored ground-stop instructions! Aircraft N440-SH is initiating takeoff roll on Runway 22! Repeat, the aircraft is rolling!"*
"Punch it!" Miller roared to his driver.
Our Suburban blew through the airport security gate, shattering the wooden barrier arm into splinters as we surged onto the tarmac. Ahead of us, across a vast expanse of wet gray concrete, a sleek white Gulfstream IV jet was roaring down the runway, its twin Rolls-Royce engines screaming at full throttle, kicking up massive rooster tails of spray into the overcast sky.
"He's running!" I shouted, gripping the dashboard. "He's going to get airborne!"
Suddenly, from the far access road flanking Runway 22, two heavy yellow airport snowplows and a massive Oshkosh airport rescue fire truck roared onto the strip, their flashing amber lights slicing through the fog. The fire truck angled itself directly across the center line, five hundred yards ahead of the accelerating jet.
The private jet’s pilots hit the emergency reverse thrusters.
The tires screamed in agony against the wet runway, smoke billowing from the rubber as the multi-million-dollar aircraft skidded violently, yawing forty degrees to the left before coming to a halt barely eighty feet from the steel bumper of the crash truck.
Before the jet engines could even spool down, four federal tactical vehicles surrounded the aircraft, doors flying open as heavily armed tactical agents deployed around the stairs.
The main cabin door hissed, unlocking and lowering slowly down to the tarmac.
Victor Sterling stepped out onto the top of the airstair. His cashmere coat was buttoned tight, his silver hair immaculate, but the arrogant smirk that had defined his face for forty years was gone. In its place was the wild, cornered look of an apex predator that had just realized it was inside a steel cage.
"Where is your warrant?" Victor demanded, his voice ringing over the dying whine of the jet engines as he descended the stairs, flanked by two pale, sweating corporate lawyers. "Do you have any idea who I am? I own the judges in this district! I own the ground you are standing on!"
Dad stepped forward from behind the line of federal agents, holding the yellow 1985 ledger high above his head.
May you like
"You don't own this ground, Sterling," Dad said, his voice echoing across the wide-open tarmac. "And you sure as hell don't own Arthur Bennett."
***
